The living room of the Vance penthouse was dead quiet.
Arthur had retired to his room, visibly exhausted by the emotional toll of revealing Eleanor's long-kept secret. Clara sat on the long velvet sofa, staring down at her hands. The faded letter from her mother lay on the glass table before her, a silent reminder that her entire life had changed in a single evening.
Alexander stood near the kitchen bar, pouring a glass of cold water. He walked over to Clara, setting the glass in front of her before sitting down right by her side. He didn't say anything at first; he took her cold hand into his warm, broad palm and squeezed it gently.
"You don't have to carry this alone, Clara," Alexander said softly, his deep voice filling the quiet room. "Whatever your mother left behind, whatever this
